A Study in Death
by Aro Holmes
Summary: An impossible murder leads Sherlock into new and dangerous territory. Soon he is gate-crashing John's honeymoon with the leader of the vampire world, encountering a mystery of evolution, adjusting to life as an immortal, and trying to save the human species in a battle of wits with a werewolf mastermind. Definitely not boring. Sequel to A Study in Blood.
1. His Last Vow

The rain was steady as the car sped along, not a hard rain, but the kind of continuous light downpour common to the area. There was something intrinsically comforting, John decided, in being inside a warm car taking you someplace that was also warm while outside the weather was wet, cold, and generally inhospitable to humans. Not that John's companion at the wheel would have minded. Aro probably could have run through the Scottish highlands in less time than the car was traveling and still not gotten damp.

An involuntary image of Aro, slick with rain, appeared in John's mind and he shifted in his seat, making himself think of something else as he looked out the car window. Aro glanced over at him and smiled affectionately.

"We'll be there soon," he said in his low, soft voice.

John nodded, and leaned over to fiddle with the dials on the radio. Indecipherable sounds filled the car as he searched for a station, before inexplicably landing on one playing American country music. Aro winced and his hands tightened a little on the wheel.

John switched the radio off and checked his phone, but they were out of signal range. He wasn't sure who he had been expecting to hear from anyway, Sherlock had promised he wouldn't call no matter how bored he got and Harry was in the middle of a relationship herself and too busy to think of interrupting him on his honeymoon.

His honeymoon.

John looked down at his left hand and the plain gold band on his ring finger.

He never thought he'd be able to make a go of any relationship long-term and now here he was, wearing the wedding ring that Aro had slid onto his finger that morning.

"You're nervous," said Aro, glancing at him again. "I knew we shouldn't have made such a big deal about it."

"No, no, it's fine," said John, he smiled reassuringly at Aro. "I'm fine. You're fine. Everything's fine." His smile got a little strained.

"It's the anticipation," said Aro, "We should have just shagged on the third date like a regular 21st century couple."

"I don't think we had a first date," said John, "when was the third?"

"You know, that time I came over and we binge-watched Downton Abbey."

"That wasn't a date."

"No?"

"That was torture, pure torture. I still don't know why you have that as a happy memory."

Aro chuckled, realizing at last that he was being teased.

"I could pull the car over right now and we could have done with it," he offered, with a sly grin.

"Hmm," said John, pretending to think it over. "You, me, a very small car, our first time, no, sorry, I think not."

"Where's your sense of romance? We're surrounded by some of the most beautiful countryside in all of Scotland. I'll tear your clothes off and ravish you in the heather."

"Have you been reading paperback romance novels again?"

"No."

"No I haven't or no I've been reading them on my new Kindle?"

Aro reached out and took John's hand in his, easily guiding the car with the other. "You know I love you, John."

John lifted Aro's hand and pressed a kiss to it. "I love you too, Aro."

Aro grinned wider. "Say it," he said.

"I can't, not yet."

"I'll say it first."

"It's just, a bit weird for me still."

"Say it," urged Aro, leaning over and breathing the word into John's ear like a caress. "I want to hear you say those words out loud."

John sighed, then forced himself to speak. "My...husband, Aro."

Aro squeezed his eyes shut with happiness, managing somehow not to drive off the side of the road. "My husband, John," he whispered.

John found that somehow, he felt better.

* * *

><p>By the time they had reached the hotel, the rain had stopped and the sky had cleared completely, turning the world outside clear and tranquil, saturated in a soft violet now that the sun had gone down.<p>

"Very nice," said John, looking around appreciatively when they had sat down to supper in the adjoining restaurant. "Good choice."

Aro looked pleased. "I was here before, a while ago. Back when this was a house instead of a hotel."

"Oh? When was that?"

"1697," said Aro, studying the menu.

John choked on the drink of water he'd just taken.

Aro suppressed a grin, humming to himself.

"Nice place?" asked John casually.

"Kind of a bloodbath, actually. But they've cleaned it up since then," replied Aro.

They were silent for a moment, studying their menus with great concentration, until John broke down and started laughing. Aro grinned widely.

"We shouldn't laugh, it's a historical site" said John, recovering himself. "Have you decided what to order?"

"Yes," said Aro, putting down his menu. "A light salad, so I don't worry the waiter too much."

* * *

><p>John couldn't help a return of his nerves when they had gone back up to their room and he was standing in front of the luxurious bed. His stomach gave a little lurch of panic and he wondered if he should just suggest they have a cuddle instead, and continue putting the whole thing off.<p>

Aro put his arms around him from behind and held him close, not seductively, but comfortingly.

"I don't want to wait any more," he said softly.

The underlying plea in Aro's voice caught at John's heart and he pulled himself together, Aro needed him, wanted him, loved him. John turned in Aro's arms and cupped his face in his hands, making Aro smile and nestle into his palms. He heaved a deep sigh and smiled back, reassuring Aro through his mind. Aro smiled wider and then went quiet, keeping himself still, his eyes closed, letting John take the lead.

"Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?" said John, his gaze lingering over Aro's uniquely perfect mouth, and uniquely perfect nose.

"A thousand times," said Aro, his voice low, with a slight tremor of emotion in it. "Please don't stop."

John leaned in and kissed him, lightly at first, brushing his lips over Aro's, and then more fully, feeling Aro melt into him with grateful eagerness. Slipping his hands from Aro's face, John began unbuttoning Aro's dark shirt, tugging it open and pressing himself closer to the vampire's cool chest, the wool of his sweater crushed against Aro's stony skin. John slid his hands down further and pulled Aro's hips to his, causing Aro to moan and deepen the kiss, his fingers tangling in John's sandy hair, until John had to pull back a little to catch his breath.

"I want you," he whispered into the curve of Aro's neck, under the fall of dark hair. "I trust you."

There was an abrupt rush of motion and John found himself on the bed, on his back, with Aro hovering over him. He was also completely naked. As was Aro.

"Sorry," said Aro a little sheepishly. "I got carried away."

"Did you just tear my clothes off and I didn't even notice?" asked John, looking around for scraps of cloth and the shards of wool that would be all that remained of his favorite sweater.

"Worse," said Aro. "I took them off and folded them neatly without you even noticing."

John turned his head and saw a pile of precisely stacked clothing on a nearby chair.

"Ok...that's, um, very impressive."

Aro grinned. "I'll go slower now, I promise."

"Yes, right, thanks," said John. "Um, could you...?"

Before he could finish the sentence, Aro had shifted in a shadowy blur, dimmed the lights and returned to John, lowering his head to kiss softly along John's neck and shoulders, his hands running over his body, gentle and confident. John let himself relax completely, feeling his apprehensions drift away in the haze of desire that Aro was building in him. Any ideas he might have had about the awkwardness of their relative strength, or of being with someone who wasn't human, or even of the pressure of wanting their first time together to be perfect, were all gone, obliterated by everything Aro's body and touch and scent was doing to him. Aro paused and smiled down at him fondly, then turned over, taking John in his arms, so that they were lying together side by side.

John bowed his head against Aro's chest because it made it easier somehow to be watched over by that silent heart, one hand clutching Aro's shoulder and the other gripping his waist, and then pushed against him experimentally. And god that was good, with Aro's fingers threading through his hair tenderly and his body really starting to take over now. He ground harder, the friction alone almost undoing him as Aro groaned loudly and reached for his face, tilting his head back to get at him as he stroked one hand down his back and then went lower, carefully, watching John's face with narrowed eyes as he worked. John grimaced and clutched Aro harder but he did not protest and gradually the discomfort diminished as his body became used to the intrusion. Despite Aro's cool body, heat spread through him with an urgent pulse and he began to rock backwards a little against that restraining hand and Aro's clever fingers.

"It's ok," he reassured Aro eagerly, "just keep going, I'll tell you when to stop."

Aro drew his breath in, a small sound like a sob of relief catching at the back of his throat. He pulled John closer and entered him slowly, giving him time to adjust before beginning to roll his hips, still with a guarded care. Looking into Aro's large eyes as they moved, John saw his own emotions reflected there, the fulfillment of need, the end of the internal loneliness that had burdened them both in life, the resolution of a bonding that had begun at the first moment they saw each other.

Aro's expression changed from concentration to an almost extreme vulnerability as he listened to John's thoughts, and he leaned in hungrily when John reached up to touch his face, caressing over his cheekbones, stroking his thumb over his mouth.

If Aro's body was heavy, cold, and overall harder than John's, it no longer mattered. Aro adjusted his movements to him even before John was aware of it, his slender fingers somehow everywhere John needed them to be, stroking and caressing just where it mattered most, his body angling John just so, caging its strength.

John was breathing hard now, in sighing moans, practically melting into Aro, his human heat overwhelming his partner's chill, his movements becoming increasingly uncoordinated until he gave up and simply held on.

"My husband Aro," he whispered, his voice hitching in the middle and his words drowned out as Aro lunged forward to kiss him deeply, his own movements turning rougher until John broke, shuddering against him, dimly aware of Aro gasping inarticulate words and John's name as his own release found him.

"Well, there's that then," said John, still a little shaky, when he had caught his breath again. "Mission accomplished."

Aro laughed gleefully, his face against John's chest. "Now for the next few hundred times," he teased. John pushed him onto his back and pinned him down.

"Just a few hundred?" inquired John, tilting his head to one side, and getting Aro's dazzling smile in response.

As John bent his head to kiss him, his hands slid down to take Aro's, palm to palm, their fingers interlacing, holding onto each other, together now.

* * *

><p>"Did you specifically choose this place for our honeymoon knowing it was going to rain all the time?" asked John. He peered out the window of the village bookshop they had taken shelter in, regarding the grey sky and renewed rainfall without enthusiasm.<p>

"I wanted to make sure we relaxed," said Aro cheerfully, examining a display of new books. "Otherwise we'd have been checking the sky constantly for any sign of sunlight."

"Or we could have gone somewhere sunny and been forced to spend the whole time in our hotel room," mused John innocently.

"Mm, tempting," said Aro, coming to stand next to John and speaking just behind his ear. "Perhaps we could simply pretend..." He trailed his fingertips down John's spine, making him shiver, then took his hand in his. "But I like doing normal couple things with you too."

John turned his head to smile at him, just happy to be near Aro. "How about we visit the pub then?"

The local pub was pleasant enough, dark wood and quiet lunchtime customers. John made his way to the bar to order some food while Aro secured a table. He was waiting for the bartender to finish drawing a pint when the man standing next to him spoke.

"I'd avoid the hotpot if I were you, they can get overly creative with the ingredients here."

John looked up sharply at the sound of the familiar, deep voice. An equally familiar smirk greeted his expression of shock.

"No," said John firmly. "No, no, absolutely not."

"Good to see you too, John," replied Sherlock, still smirking. "Nice of you to finally get out of bed, I was wondering how long I'd have to hang around here waiting."

"Now look here, Sherlock, you promised, you specifically said you weren't going to do this," said John, crossing his arms and glaring at his friend. "All I asked was for two weeks of uninterrupted peace and quiet."

"Don't be ridiculous," scoffed Sherlock. "Peace and quiet? Is that why you married a blood-sucking demon then?"

"Oh there you are, did you order yet?" Another familiar voice said from behind Sherlock.

John covered his face with his hands and groaned.

"Hello Greg," he said wearily.

"Hello John," responded Lestrade, looking around Sherlock's shoulder. "How's the honeymoon?"

"Oh fine, fine," said John, leaning his arms on the bar. "Amazing actually, any chance I could go back to it?"

"We're not stopping you," said Sherlock. "Are we, Lestrade? We're here on holiday."

"Together?" asked John suspiciously. "Really?"

"Sure," said Lestrade, managing to look completely deadpan. "Sherlock and I decided to get out of London for a bit."

A dark form transposed itself between John and Sherlock, and John found himself staring at the sleek hair and solid shoulders of his husband.

"Go. Somewhere. Else," said Aro quietly, with all the lethal intensity of a final warning.

John peered around to see Sherlock and Lestrade's expressions. Lestrade looked completely intimidated but Sherlock was facing Aro down with an equal force of character. John sighed and leaned his forehead on Aro's shoulder. Obviously, this was going to take some time.


	2. Necessary Risks

_Author's Note: I want to say it took me so long to post this update because of life stuff but really it's because I spent the last two months rewriting it from scratch every few days. Sure sign of madness._

_Warnings: mild scariness, mild description of past violence._

* * *

><p>Despite all his promises to himself, Sherlock had spent the first 24 hours after John's wedding in a sulk. Or rather it had begun as a sulk, but after a while the burden of keeping it up without an audience had become too much and he had ended up just staring at John's empty armchair for hours until he almost started to hate the inside of his own mind.<p>

It wasn't until the morning after, when he had been practically forcing himself to shower, shave, and dress properly, that he was able to identify the emotion he was experiencing. It was so alien and yet so completely unforced that he froze in the middle of buttoning his shirt, his heart racing painfully.

Grief was the best description he could find. Loss, pain, emptiness, and a kind of hollow terror. He pulled himself together angrily and went to put the kettle on. It was stupid to be taking it so hard. It wasn't as if John were actually dead after all. He had gotten married and moved out, that was all. He might not be in the flat right now, but that was because he was away on his honeymoon, on the same continent, barely seven hours away, easily within reach if necessary. And when he came back, they'd find some interesting case to work on, John would update his blog, and everything would be back to normal. Right?

Sherlock sat at the table and put his chin on his peaked hands, calming his heartbeat, focusing his thoughts until the static of emotion faded into white. Involuntarily, his mind went back to the day before, and he saw with aching clarity the moment when Aro had slid the ring onto John's finger, smiling as he bent his head over John's hand, cradling it tenderly. And the expression on John's face...nothing short of trembling, glowing happiness. The look of being so in love with someone that you would surrender yourself to them entirely.

He was deluding himself if he thought John was coming back. Hence the grief. Staring at John's chair was becoming too much of an addiction so he went and sat in it instead, and this is where he was when Mycroft phoned him. Repeatedly, insistently, aggravatingly.

"What?" snapped Sherlock when he finally answered.

"Meet me at the St. Bartholomew's morgue," said his brother, and hung up.

Sherlock glowered at his mobile for a few minutes, but there was nothing for it. He needed a case right about now. A nice, interesting case that could at the very least consume him mind and soul for a couple of hours.

In as short a time as he could make it, Sherlock was standing over the body, squinting at it with narrowed eyes.

"This is...different," he said at last, his usual callously cool reaction to murder victims shaken just a bit.

Molly, who had pulled the cover back from the corpse, backed away to one side, averting her eyes.

On the other side of the slab, Mycroft and Lestrade watched Sherlock's reaction closely.

Sherlock leaned over and began making small, quick examinations of details with his pocket magnifier, zeroing in particularly on the dirt embedded beneath the victim's otherwise pristine and well-manicured fingernails. Curious. He scraped out a sample for analysis.

"Well?" asked Mycroft with ironic impatience, raising one eyebrow in inquiry.

"Interesting," said Sherlock. "Very interesting."

He straightened up and ran his gaze over the body appraisingly.

The man had been in his late thirties, probably a nice enough person, adequately good-looking, reasonably intelligent. Obviously a civil servant high up in the government, a lot of hard mental work but born to money and leisure judging from his hands, teeth, and hair. What was interesting about his physical state was that aside from the wound he had no marks of trauma. Which was intriguing considering that he would have had to have been restrained while someone or a number of someones carved a large, elaborate capital V into his chest.

"Heart attack, " Sherlock continued, in a business-like tone of voice. "Most likely brought on by the pain of the incisions, and/or by fear. The cuts were made with an object sharp enough to slice through the skin without tearing but wider than a scalpel or knife, with curved sides, likely something not intended for the purpose. He was alive when it happened but the incisions were purposefully gauged to avoid significant blood loss, ensuring that he didn't pass out during the process. He was meant to witness his own attack, as a punishment or possibly as a warning to others."

Sherlock raised his eyes to his brother's and quirked an eyebrow.

"Well?" he asked. "Say it. You're not normally so reticent when it comes to pointing out the obvious."

"You haven't talked about the letter yet," said Mycroft, obviously struggling to maintain his composure. He looked sickened, but Sherlock was pretty sure this had nothing to do with the state of the body and everything to do with its implications to himself.

"It's not a letter, it's a logo," said Sherlock dryly. "Anything else blindingly dull that you want me to say?"

A flash of anger passed through Mycroft's face and then he pulled himself together and simpered at his brother in the sweet, superior way that had always led to the exchange of ever increasing levels of sarcasm in their youth.

"Well you might start by telling me why you think one of my most respected colleagues was kidnapped and branded with the logo of an investment banking firm that just happens to be owned by the spouse of your good friend Dr John Watson, and which coincidentally has you on permanent retainer."

Lestrade, who had been keeping a low profile during this interchange, looked visibly startled.

"Wait, you don't think John's husband had anything to do with this?" he asked.

"Yes, brother dear, what makes you think Aro Volturi would kidnap a man from his home, torture him, brand him with his logo, and then leave him to die in the back garden of a randomly chosen house in Kensington?" asked Sherlock.

"You tell me, dear brother," returned Mycroft. "And while you're about it, why not also explain why this entire process was effected in less than a ten minute window of opportunity? Much like the speed of those 'vampire' murders you so conveniently lost interest in pursuing once you met your new employers."

Sherlock looked away, scowling.

"Molly, do you think you could fetch us some teas?" said Lestrade nervously, sensing that the direction of the case was about to get decidedly twistier.

"Oh, um, really?" asked Molly, who had been keeping herself occupied with something that involved suture thread and formaldehyde.

"Run along," said Mycroft, waving his hand charmingly in the direction of the door.

He waited until the door had closed behind Molly before leaning over the slab and fixing Sherlock with his best threatening glare.

"How could you possibly think I don't know about the Volturi case? As you are so fond of pointing out, I am the government, and it has certainly not escaped the government's attention that the Volturi Group is much more than a bank. Six months ago six people died because of their activities, activities which apparently you support."

Sherlock looked at his brother thoughtfully, inwardly mapping just how much Mycroft knew about the true nature of the Volturi, and at the same time how little.

A little knowledge is the most dangerous of all.

"This wasn't the work of the Volturi family," said Sherlock at last, choosing his words carefully. "I know their methods. This isn't them. This is crude, beastial, dramatic, wildly over the top. Effective only by its loudness. The Volturi are by contrast surgical, precise, and discrete."

"They're also in a position to know just how close Seb was getting to them," replied Mycroft, a certain poisonous element creeping into his voice.

"Seb?" asked Sherlock, momentarily thrown by this.

"The victim," said Mycroft, impatiently gesturing at the body. "Sebastian Croft-Hughes. The Volturi have been picking up classified information for years without anyone coming close to figuring out how, but Seb thought he was getting there. The last time we spoke, he said he had found the rabbit hole and he was preparing to follow it down as far as he could."

"So the Volturi family killed him to make sure he didn't tell anyone what he knew?" asked Lestrade, a little bewildered at the thought of John's frankly charming husband having anything do with the travesty before them.

"Oh certainly," said Sherlock, blood rushing to his head at the stupidity of the two men before him. He pushed himself back from the slab and waved his arms around in exasperation. "Let's see, how did the conversation go? Well look at that, Mr Croft-Hughes is investigating us, what shall we do? I know, let's carve our logo into his chest and put him in a public place to die, so everyone will know we did it! Brilliant! I love it! How fast can we make it happen?!"

Mycroft folded his arms. "Fine," he said, looking sweetly menacing again. "Find out who did make it happen, or hand over your new employers. Your choice."

At that moment, Molly came back into the room carrying a cardboard tray of teas. She stopped and look uncertainly from one Holmes brother to the other.

"I could just keep walking around the corridors," she offered meekly.

"Stay," said Sherlock. "I think we're done here."

He tied his scarf in a scathing manner, and made for the door.

"Oh and Lestrade will be helping you on this case," said Mycroft, raising his voice just a little.

"For moral support?" Sherlock asked brightly from the open door.

"For your own protection," replied Mycroft, his smile now decidedly evil.

Outside, Sherlock straightened his coat collar and turned to Lestrade with a satisfied smile.

"You know what we need, inspector? A holiday. How do you feel about Scotland?"

Lestrade blinked, and then the implications of the question struck him.

"You're not just going to use this case as an excuse to see John, are you?" he asked suspiciously.

Sherlock's pleasant smile slid into an expression of dark annoyance.

Of course it wasn't.

Really.

And yet he couldn't deny the warmth that spread through his chest when John walked into the pub.

The odd thing was how glad Sherlock was to see both of them. Even Aro's darkly burning and understandably defensive glare made him feel better. This was good because it helped him in carrying out the decision he had made before he and Lestrade left London.

He gave Aro a few moments, returning his gaze evenly, then leaned down until his face was level with Aro's, quite close, enough to make it uncomfortably uncertain as to whether they were going to kiss, and then waited, still with that calm expression, his pale eyes focused on Aro's.

Aro blinked, his expression shifting first into wide-eyed surprise, and then becoming extremely serious.

"Sherlock," John hissed. "What are you doing?"

"It's alright," said Aro softly, speaking to both of them but not taking his eyes off of Sherlock. With extreme delicacy, he reached out one hand and held it just a little above Sherlock's face, hesitating, before touching the pads of his fingertips to his cheek with a featherlight touch.

John gasped and Sherlock shut his eyes tightly, unable to restrain a shiver as those cool fingers touched him, touched his mind, delved inside and took everything, even down to the last repressed memory and forgotten practical fact buried in the vault of his mind palace.

It was a sacrifice he had never wanted to make but nevertheless he made it now, having weighed the alternatives and seen them to be lacking.

Aro slid his fingers away with a slow tenderness, his large eyes fixed wonderingly. Sherlock straightened, drawing his head back and up, recoiling from the intimacy.

Aro drew in a deep breath, and a shudder ran through his body like a thin flicker of electricity. He reached out one hand and touched the edge of the bar, lightly at first and then harder, so that the burnished wood made an ominous little crackle. John took hold of Aro's shoulder and turned him around, cupping his face in his hands and staring into his eyes with the stark intensity that he reserved for moments of extreme suspense and danger. Aro swallowed hard and seemed to be trying to pull pieces of himself back together, then he gave a small moan and dipped his head to rest in the curve of John's neck, just above the collar of his black jacket, slumping enough that John had to work to keep his balance.

"Is he ill? What the hell just happened?" demanded Lestrade, coming forward and putting a supportive hand under Aro's elbow.

"He's fine," said John, "all good, he just needs a moment, got a little over-tired, that's all." He looked over Aro's shoulder to Sherlock, who was averting his eyes, the sight of Aro's reaction becoming too much for him.

"Here you are, nice cup of tea," said Lestrade, placing the steaming cup and saucer in front of Aro. John, seated next to him at the pub table, gave the inspector a friendly smile of thanks while his husband gazed at the cup with unseeing eyes.

"So let's start again," said John, looking across the table at Sherlock. "Why are you here? You can't be on holiday, so what's the case?"

Sherlock, who had been frowning steadily at nothing in particular, looked up at John and squinted at him with an appraising expression.

"You're happy," he said, his voice a little thick.

John actually blushed. "Well, yes, that's true, yes, right, good, glad you noticed. But the case…."

Sherlock ignored him and went rigidly grim again. Even though he hadn't felt any real physical attack from Aro's touch, the psychological effect of having someone download his mind was wrecking havoc with his adrenaline levels.

"Mycroft asked Sherlock to take on a case for him, well ok, forced him to help," said Lestrade. "There's a connection with the Volturi family, that's why we're here, although frankly I'm not sure why we didn't just go immediately and talk to your new in-laws…." He pulled out his mobile and thumbed over to an image, holding the phone up for John to see.

"Bloody hell," said John, shocked not only at the state of the body but also at the sight of the now very familiar crest of Aro's coven. "Who is that?"

Lestrade went through the basic facts of the case while John listened nervously for any sign that he might have actually found out just how clandestine those activities really were, but the inspector merely looked discomfited by having to deal with a difficult and unsavory case, and went on drinking his pint as though the world continued to revolve normally around the affairs of human beings.

Aro finally roused himself, looked in surprise at the cup of tea, and pushed it discretely toward John, who automatically picked it up and took a sip, it having become completely routine for him to cover Aro's continuous lack of appetite.

"Sherlock," Aro said quietly, reaching across the table and putting his hand on the detective's arm, careful to touch only the cloth of his tweed coat. "You were right to tell me first, and I do appreciate your...discretion on this matter."

Sherlock nodded but refused to meet his eyes.

"You will continue to investigate on my behalf," continued Aro, speaking calmly and unemotionally. "You will consult no other member of my family and act only on my authority."

Sherlock nodded again, looking with vague disinterest in the direction of the pub's front doors. Then he twitched his head in Lestrade's direction. "What about my minder?" he asked.

"I'll make sure he stays out of your way," replied Aro.

"You know I am still here," said Lestrade exasperatedly. "And I should remind you that Sherlock and I are investigating this case on behalf of the British government, which does in fact have legal jurisdiction over your family."

John coughed politely and Aro looked in Lestrade's direction with a thoughtful but not entirely friendly expression, causing Lestrade to revise his earlier conception of Aro as cuddly and non-threatening.

"I want John," said Sherlock, gazing up at the ceiling.

John looked quickly at Aro. It occurred to him that he had yet to discuss his future involvement in Sherlock's work with his new husband and he wondered suddenly if Aro had some plans of his own in this area.

"Not on this case," said Aro.

"There may not be another case if I don't solve this one," said Sherlock, drawing his arm away from Aro's grasp and turning to meet his gaze for the first time, his own pale, narrowed eyes hard and cold. "John, or I don't help."

Aro rose with liquid grace and loomed over the table, his fingertips pressed against its surface as he brought his face close to Sherlock, his large eyes strangely luminous in the warm light of the pub. Sherlock regarded him unflinchingly. He had recovered now from their encounter and he knew the game he was playing.

"You will not involve John. You will protect him, as will I. Remember our agreement, detective."

Lestrade watched them with a slightly open-mouthed expression. Clearly they were discussing something under the surface of the original conversation, and an invisible battle seemed to be brewing that only they could experience.

John folded his arms and sat back in his chair with a grimace. Experience had taught him not to get in Sherlock's way when he was in one of his highs of purpose and stubborn determination. And while parts of his husband's personality were still relatively unknown to him, he could recognize the Aro currently on display. A modified version of the much feared overlord responsible for managing and circumscribing the vampire world for centuries.

"I am protecting him," replied Sherlock bitingly. "You should understand better than anyone what it means to use those you value most as your greatest weapons."

"That claim no longer lies with you," said Aro, his voice hardening and dropping into a menacing undertone. "Dr. Watson belongs to me now."

John hummed to himself and casually glanced around to see if the confrontation was attracting much notice.

"Do you think that little technicality will matter when they come for us?" asked Sherlock in a fierce whisper. "John and I still meet the minimum requirements for termination."

John moistened his lips and took the risk of interrupting the heated conversation, which was now getting into territory so cryptic he wasn't even sure the participants could understand it. "Look, I really am flattered that you're fighting over me, but do you think we could continue this somewhere else? Only I think people are starting to notice."

Sherlock swung around toward John, looking startled, his nostrils flaring.

"Sorry," said John quickly. "I didn't mean to…."

"Nobody noticed it was going to happen," hissed Sherlock, not taking his eyes off of John. "Why not?"

Aro blinked, and then sat down, looking confused and a little tired. "Alice," he said quietly.

"What?" asked Lestrade. "Do you mean Alice as in your daughter Alice?" A vivid memory of Aro's daughter, laughing and giddy at the wedding, momentarily distracted him with its associated feelings of warm appreciation.

Aro ignored him and focused on Sherlock. "She didn't see anything like this, just some details of the honeymoon. Nothing like this."

"So when you say Alice saw some details. Which details do you mean exactly?" asked John, completely distracted by this new piece of information.

"She's being selectively blocked," said Sherlock. "It's like Moriarty...but tactical and applied instead of a happy accident of evolution."

Lestrade gave up and put his face in his hands with a groan of exasperation. "Are you still talking about the case?" he asked, his voice muffled.

"Aro," said John insistently, touching his hand. "This obviously isn't the place to get our facts straight."

Aro nodded and rose, buttoning his jacket. "We'll return to London immediately, I'll arrange for the tickets."

"I'm sorry about the rest of our trip," he said to John, his voice softening again as he ran his fingers through his husband's sandy hair. "I'll make it up to you, I promise."

John smiled. "Goes with the territory," he said, feeling his adrenaline picking up. Even in the midst of thoroughly enjoying having Aro all to himself, it felt absurdly good to have a case again.

"Great," said Lestrade, relieved to be back on firmer ground. "I'll check us out of our room, Sherlock."

"Meet you outside the hotel?" asked John, looking concerned at Sherlock's return to grimness.

Sherlock waved him away and stared off into nothingness.

"Come," said Aro softly, pulling John away. "He'll be fine," he added reassuringly. But John, looking over his shoulder at Sherlock, wasn't so sure.

It took Sherlock several minutes to realize he was finally alone. He wasn't looking forward to returning to London, Mycroft's increasingly obnoxious, annoying, and overbearing….

Sherlock stood abruptly, chasing such thoughts from his mind. He had no time for sulking now, and as usual, there was no one to watch. Half-way up the stairs to the room he and Lestrade had booked, he found someone waiting for him on the landing.

He froze, his mouth going dry and his eyes widening in shock.

"Missed me?" said the man, his small frame and large intense eyes were completely familiar to Sherlock, but the fact that he was here, lounging against the wall in an expensive suit, that made absolutely no sense.

"You're dead, Moriarty," said Sherlock, barely able to get the words out.

Moriarty shrugged.

"This is a hallucination," continued Sherlock, walking up the rest of the way to the landing, and then lunging at Moriarty and grabbing him by his collar. To his dismay, the man felt warm, alive, giving off that familiar scent of excitement that had always both aroused and disgusted Sherlock.

"Tell yourself what you want to," said Moriarty, sneering. "Kill me again if you feel like it. But unless you trust me a little, you'll never solve your case."

"What do you know?" demanded Sherlock, shoving Moriarty up against the wall, hard enough to slam the back of his head against the plaster.

Moriarty winced and then chuckled, bringing his hand to his hair and then holding it up for Sherlock to see, a thin smudge of fresh blood.

"Real enough for you?" inquired Moriarty with exaggerated politeness. He chuckled again, grinning widely.

Sherlock let go of Moriarty's collar and flattened his hands on the wall, caging him in, aware that he was breathing hard. "Tell me what you know," he snarled.

Moriarty subsided reluctantly. "When you come with me," he said in an almost normal tone of voice. "But you do have to come with me." He ducked under Sherlock's arm and paused at the top of the steps, looking over his shoulder with something so like a human expression of apprehension and uncertainty that Sherlock was taken by surprise.

* * *

><p>Aro parked the car in front of the pub and paused, hands still on the wheel, eyes fixed on the middle distance.<p>

John fidgeted a little in the passenger seat, still unsure of how to handle Aro's thinking fits. Sherlock had been easier, you just ignored him when he went silent, worked around him until his thoughts rose back to the surface. Aro on the other hand, somehow John felt that the longer he was silent, the worse he got, and he wondered if it was possible for Aro to lose himself somewhere in that beautiful and terrible brain of his that contained so much and forgot nothing.

"Is it vampires?" he asked finally, his voice sounding overly tentative in the silence. "The Romanii again? Another coven?"

Aro shook his head and then leaned back in the driver's seat with a sigh, dropping his hands to his lap.

"This has to be humans, but the meaning of the crime...if Sherlock's theory is true, then, well it's an unthinkable event…."

He broke off, distracted by the sight of Lestrade running out of the pub and making his way towards them with a panicked expression.

"He's gone!" Lestrade called to them, even before they were out of the car. "I can't find him anywhere, and there's some blood on the stairs going up to the second floor. I think he's been abducted."

"Show me," said Aro.

To John's surprise, Lestrade went quiet, allowing Aro to take the lead as they went back into the pub. Although perhaps this wasn't a good thing as he also caught Lestrade watching Aro intently, as though studying him for give-aways about his involvement.

Of course Aro didn't help matters by first getting as close as possible to the smear of blood on the wall, and then giving it an experimental lick.

Lestrade made a startled and completely inarticulate choking sound and made a movement forward as if to intervene before something worse happened.

"Well?" asked John as Aro closed his eyes, concentrating on the taste.

Aro shook his head. "Not Sherlock. And strangely enough, not human either."

"What?" demanded Lestrade.

"No, it's an animal," continued Aro. "Something like a dog or a wolf." He curled his lip disdainfully, then turned and ran back down the stairs.

They caught up with him outside, in a grassy area beyond the pub's back garden. Aro was standing perfectly still, looking out at the landscape that stretched beyond the village, wild, green, and ragged with stony outcroppings and scattered stands of trees. The sky, which was still overcast despite the pause in the rain, was darkening rapidly, the light fading out even though it was still several hours until sunset.

"Whoever it is has taken Sherlock somewhere out there," he said. "I have both their scents, I think Sherlock is walking on his own power, thankfully, so they can't have traveled too far too quickly."

"So he's being forced," said Lestrade. "Otherwise why would he leave like that?"

"I hate to say it," said John, "but we are talking about a man who once knowingly got in a cab with a serial killer."

"And just how is it that you can track them by scent?" Lestrade asked Aro, who only quirked an eyebrow at him.

I'll ask the landlord for some flashlights, it'll be getting darker soon," said John.

"Why?" asked Aro automatically, and then winced. "Sorry, of course. Greg, you should stay here, John and I go and look for Sherlock."

"You've got to be kidding me," said Lestrade.

He took advantage of John hurrying back to the pub by getting closer to Aro and putting on his serious, pay attention to me or else consequences, expression.

"Not only am I not letting you out of my sight, but when we get back to London there will be a much needed investigation of you and your family."

Aro turned and smiled at Lestrade affectionately, making him jump a little at the sudden change in mood.

"You know, John and Sherlock are very fond of you. You're a good friend to them and they value you highly."

"Ah, er, thanks," said Lestrade, really thrown off now.

Aro put his hand on Lestrade's shoulder and leaned in a little.

"And this is why I'm not going to kill you," he said in a low voice.

Lestrade stared at him, feeling chillier by the second.

Aro smiled even more warmly. "But there are consequences to this as well, Greg, and I'm afraid I'm going to have a little chat with you when we get back to London."

John came hurrying back with a couple of borrowed flashlights just in time to see Lestrade's expression as he took in this information.

"What did I miss?" asked John, looking from one to the other.

"Nothing to worry about," said Aro, "now come, before we're too late." And he set off, towards the expanse of open country.

John and Lestrade exchanged glances as they followed, John looking worried and protective, Lestrade merely disturbed. Together the three headed off in the half-light of the darkening sky.

* * *

><p>Sherlock kept glancing over at Moriarty, trying to get a better read on him as they walked along, the village left behind in exchange for alternately rough ground and springy soggy turf.<p>

"Are you a vampire?" he asked.

Moriarty grinned. "What makes you say that?"

"Because Jim Moriarty is dead, so the only explanation for what I'm seeing right now is that someone with projective mental abilities is using my memories to trick me into seeing your image. Am I even talking to something right now, or am I walking here by myself?"

Moriarty grinned wider. It was hard to say what was so unsettling about him, too many teeth perhaps, or the trace gleam at the edges of his eyes, as though something hid their true nature.

Sherlock looked away, wondering how long it would take for Aro to find his scent and follow him, straight to his quarry even as whatever it was led Sherlock further and further into danger.


End file.
